Harmony
by The Leaf 180
Summary: Spain loves his garden. He loves the symphony of scents and colors that made up his world. He loves the feeling of all his plants living and breathing around him in perfect harmony. He hopes that one day soon, Romano could learn to appreciate it with him.


Harmony

Spain loves his garden. He loves the symphony of scents and colors that made up his world. He loves the feeling of all his plants living and breathing around him in perfect harmony. He hopes that one day soon, Romano could learn to appreciate it with him.

**Happy Earth Day guys~**

* * *

Spain loves his garden.

He loves the blend of colors, reds and whites and everything in between, swirling together in perfect harmony. The striking yellows and lush greens perfectly balanced by vibrant purples and all different shades of pink growing together.

He loves the flowers, the soft velvety petals between his calloused fingers, the delicate bulb perched atop a sturdy stem, giving off its fragile essence. Perfumes of all different plants in the air around him, warm fragrances clearing his nostrils and sickly sweet scents on the roof of his mouth, so strong that he can taste its pungent aroma hours after.

He loves his tomatoes especially, he loves the way the shadows fall on their plump round bellies, swollen with seeds. Spain loves the way the hose water cascades down their sleek filmy skin, round pearly beads rolling down their iridescent bodies. He loves the feel of fuzzy vines and leaves against the rough pads of his fingers.

He loves the way they are constantly curving and reaching towards the sun, winding around the stakes he had set for them. Spain loves the crunch of the skin as it broke under is teeth, he loves the acidly taste of the juices that spray out with every bite he took.

He loves the feel of the ruby tomatoes in his hand, he loves the way that it fit perfectly in his palm, and he loves the way each of his thin knobby fingers cup the round fruit. Spain loves picking seeds out of his teeth with his tongue, fishing them out from each crevice, each nook and cranny, and skillfully positioning them and snapping them in half without the seed slipping into the back of his mouth.

Romano often tells him that he looks stupid with the faces he makes when he does that, but Spain just thinks of it as just another way of appreciating the plant he adores.

He loves the deep rich hues of the earth; he loves renewing their faded browns with his shovel, churning until his patch of soil was dark and moist and ready to host life once again. He loves the dependable earth and how he has the power the coax life out of it with love and toil.

He loves the feeling of the crumbling dirt between his fingers, coating in between and everywhere, staining his fingers with hard work and success. He loves the map of dirt engrained in his handprint on the days he does not wear gloves, he loves the intricate network on each crease in his hand.

He loves the dirt embedding itself in nail beds and fingernails, a memo of his devotion, never quite fading even after he scrubs it off.

He loves the feeling of the sun on his back as he dutifully rids his project of weeds, beaming down upon him, warming his broad shoulders as he worked. He loves the tingle of fading warm as he retires to the house; he loves how the sunlight turns his cinnamon skin a fuller tint of tan.

He loves the feel of the sunlight as it wraps him in a comforting embrace, its lukewarm hug chasing away the sting of morning cold as he stirs in his garden in the dawn. He loves the way that its balmy feel can revive the few straggling, fading plants he might have.

He loves to start his day early, entering his garden as soon as he can, preferably when the ground is slack and the plants are watered with dew and night rain. He likes watching the sun break through the night in rays on the edge of the horizon, clawing up the sky to reach him.

He loves the crunch of his boots on the entrails of his garden in its younger days, when old remains and carcasses of plants still litter the ground and the opportunity to remove them has yet to present itself. He loves the chill of the night as it contrasts with the mild warmth of the daybreak as it seeps into his bones.

Spain loves his gloves. He loves how they have grown accustomed to his hand after years of use, adapting to each bend and pattern of his hand. He loves how the gloves know his hand after religious use. He loves how the gloves have learned his ways, how he forms his fists, how his nimble fingers curl around the tools he uses daily.

He loves how his gloves are all multicolored, darker around his palm where they rub against grainy wooden poles, faded at the tips where they received the most daunting of tasks. He loves the way his gloves fit snuggly around his slender fingers, symbols of his tireless harvesting days, plucking fruits and gathering flowers.

Spain even loves the weeds, he loves how the prove adversary and a challenge, he loves the fact that if he is going to commit to exterminating them, then he has to pledge to travel with the job until its definite end.

He loves the weeds because they support his disdain for mediocrity and mutual effort, and if he wants to get rid of the problem, then he should be prepared to get down on his hands and knees and pluck them out one at a time.

Spain loves the small pang of success as he eradicates another pesky dandelion from his patch of dirt, he loves the strong sense of approval that swamps over him after his hard work is done and his garden is spotless and perfect.

He loves the feel of his hardened fingers in the dirt, twirling and twisting around lean strands of root, snagging them and tearing them from the earth. He loves the melodic snapping of the weed's lifelines in his firm grip, macabre popping that sounds fluid in his ears.

Spain loves his garden, and though Romano stays inside and watches through the window, Spain knows that someday he will join him, and they both will work under the watchful eyes of the sun, using the day that had been given to them, thanking the earth with each breath they took as they comb the lands.

"_Why would you plant such a small tree? It's weak and bendable. It will never survive." Romano snorts scornfully from behind him as Spain crouches beside the newest addition to his yard, a young maple sapling. Spain watches it with transfixed eyes as he places the small tree inside the hole that he had dug previously._

"_Because," he responded, not shifting his eyes from his seedling as he stands. "Someday this tree will be big and strong. It will have seen things, and we will be sitting under its canopy of leaves wondering how something so small and delicate could have grown so big."_

"_Then why don't you just plant a big tree so we can sit under it now?" Romano shot back sourly as he handed his boss his shovel._

_The Spaniard's emerald eyes twinkled as he spoke, retrieving his shovel from the Italian. The sapling was not really a sapling; it was a little taller than Spain himself and just as wide. It had taken both Spain and Romano's combined effort to lug it to the chosen spot. _

_It was still young, not full-grown, leaves small like mittens and a trunk lean, although the roots were meaty. He resumed his place at the foot of the tree, dutifully showering the hole with upturned dirt. His arms swinging rhythmically as he surrounded the plantlet with soil. _

"_We can record this tree's progress this way, I want to wait and watch it explore this world of ours," Spain answered without glancing up at the Italian._

_Romano huffs as he advances towards Spain, his hands on his hips. "It's a tree."_

"_It's a living thing!"_

"_So? There are a million others just like it."_

_Spain sighs at Romano's stubbornness. "But this is my tree." He stated as though it was obvious, patting down soil with the blunt of his shovel as he spoke._

"_They all look the same."_

_Spain knew that_ each_ tree was unique, that this scrawny sapling would soon grow into a majestic adult tree, its lanky branches spread all around, thick with an abundance of healthy green leaves, upturned to the sun._

_He's witness the miracle of growth before, and he had faith that this meager seedling would fulfill its expectations, along with plenty of tender love and care that Spain planned to give it. _

_The Spaniard shook his head in exasperation, his matted locks swaying with whiplash as they landed haphazardly on his forehead, in all different directions. He took his knife from where it lay in his pocket, flipping it open with expertise touch. He turned to his tree, hating to mar its untouched trunk, but he supposed that a tiny scar could not hurt. _

_With sloppy, jerking movement's as he wrote against the grain, chips of bark peeling off as he penetrated layers of the bark. He stood back to admire his handy work, turning to Romano for approval, a smug smirk adorning his features._

"_Spain's tree" Romano read flatly, rolling his eyes._

"_Better now?" _

_-/-/-/-_

The tree still stands, and though someday Romano will grow up and leave him, Spain's tree would still be with him, along with his garden and his memories.

Spain lives in his world of colors and scents, lost in the beauty of nature, an illusion he would never tire of, a dream that would never fade. Just Spain and his plants, working in synchrony, depending on each other and striving together in perfect harmony.

For this land was his home, this garden was his haven, and that is the way it has always been, and that is the way it will always be.


End file.
